


hot piece

by annejumps



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: Still Have Powers, First Meetings, Flirting, Gun Kink, Guns, Innuendo, M/M, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-13 00:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4500183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Competition shooter Erik is practicing at the firing range. Little does he know the guy in the next booth has designs on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hot piece

The way Erik saw it, the edge his natural abilities supplied him in competition was the same as that provided by any other natural gifts an athlete might have. It was like a basketball player being tall, or a speedskater having long legs, he figured. He was exercising his skill when he guided his shots to the bullseye in a way different from the usual. It was just that the skill being used wasn’t the skill people focused on.

And there was the fact that he hadn’t told anyone about these abilities. Because he had a feeling others wouldn’t take the view he did.

He was glad to be able to have some time to practice on his lunch hour at his favorite local range, with his Browning 1911-380 Black Label, a recent purchase that already felt like an old standby. It was a small range, and he’d been alone when he first came in and started; there was now a man on his right. It was a bit odd that he’d selected the adjacent booth when there were others free, but perhaps he liked that particular booth. It was none of Erik’s concern, really, and he shook off his initial irritation at having his privacy interrupted.

Erik’s shots peppered the center of the target and closely around it; he didn’t want to hit the mark too perfectly every time, at least not when other people were watching. Even on the rare occasions when he tried not to use his powers, he was still a good shot, he reflected as he took down the torn target and replaced it. But where was the fun in that?

He was getting caught up once again in the beautiful pattern of loading, racking, and firing -- the perfect rhythm that always seemed to take him to a higher state of contentment -- when after ejecting the empty magazine he started to reload it and felt a hand briefly touch his back.

Expecting it to be the range safety officer notifying him of some sort of problem, Erik paused, setting the pistol down with the action open and raising his hands, automatically glancing to make sure his weapon was pointing downrange.

“You’re cheating,” an English-accented voice said, in crisp amusement and mild rebuke, just audible through his hearing protection, at his right shoulder.

Erik turned to stare at the speaker, who was of course the man at the next booth -- a young man shorter than he was with thick brown hair, his brilliant blue eyes behind his protective glasses dancing with impudence. 

“I beg your pardon?” Erik asked, remembering at the last second to sound cold and deeply affronted.

“You’re cheating,” the man repeated, returning to his side of the clear Plexiglass divider between their booths. He picked up his pistol, turned off the safety, and racked his slide. The man had a CZ 75, a well-made and elegant model Erik had always had an affinity for; it was almost entirely metal-bodied, made of high-grade, gleaming stainless steel, which Erik preferred to the much less attractive mostly polymer pistols like the Glock (his Browning had a composite frame, but that didn’t really bother Erik since the more important parts of the pistol to him were still metal; besides, this wasn’t one of his competition guns). The man aimed, and fired. Erik caused his bullet to veer off to the right.

The man looked at him, mischief in his expression, and put his pistol on the counter, safety back on. He had to return to relatively close proximity to Erik to make himself heard; Erik could smell his aftershave. “All right, I suppose I asked for that.”

“You would do well to mind your own business, then,” Erik replied.

“Oh, but that’s so hard,” the man answered, with a wink. Unsure how to reply to that, let alone the wink, Erik blinked at him. The man pursed his lips slightly, then smiled; he had remarkably red lips, Erik realized. 

The man raised a brow, still smiling, and returned to his booth. Erik attempted to steer his concentration back toward reloading, when he heard a voice in his head. 

_Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone_.

The voice was the same as that of the man in the next booth, but when Erik looked over at him in surprise, he was firing the remaining rounds of his magazine, nothing in his expression indicating anything was amiss. 

Erik couldn’t help reaching out with his ability to sense the pistol in the man’s grip, the weight and heat of it cradled in his hand. Because it was made of fine stainless steel with the exception of the rubber grips, he could more easily feel the man’s fingers around it, the sure hold he had on it; he felt the pressure of his finger on the trigger, pulling it into every explosive release. Erik felt every _plink_ of the spent brass casings hitting the floor. 

Once the magazine was emptied, Erik realized he was breathing a little harder. He heard the man’s voice in his head again as he resumed loading his own magazine.

 _I’m a mutant, like you. I can sense your mutation, and I’m a telepath. I hope you don’t mind, but it’s easier to talk to you this way. It can get terribly loud in here, you know._ The man ejected the empty magazine, opened the action, and set his pistol pointing downrange on the counter just as Erik inserted his magazine. _I won’t bother you while you shoot. I’d rather observe you, I think_.

Erik racked his slide, aimed, and fired. Technically, he didn’t even need to be holding the pistol. But there was something satisfying about doing so; more tactile, like this. And since he had to do it in competition, he might as well practice this way.

Eight rounds later, each clustered around the center of the target, he glanced at the man, who was staring at him with that brow raised again, and a small but very suggestive smile.

 _I think I’d better buy you dinner_ , the man said. _Tonight, if possible_.

Well. Erik put the safety on and set down the pistol, and walked into the man’s booth. As they were the only people in here, he took off his hearing protection, leaving it around his neck. The man did the same. “Not only did you just accuse me of cheating,” Erik said, folding his arms, “I don’t even know your name.”

“Charles Xavier,” the man -- Charles -- replied, extending his hand for a shake, which Erik took. His grip was just as firm on Erik’s hand as it had been on his CZ. “I rather thought my buying you dinner might make up for my having accused you of cheating. And Erik, if you’d like to debate whether or not you’re cheating over dinner, that’s perfectly all right with me.”

Erik opened his mouth to speak -- Charles knew his name -- but Charles interrupted again, gesturing toward his pistol on the booth counter. “Accept my offer,” he added, “and I’ll let you fire it. I noticed you ogling it.”

“I wasn’t--” 

“You were.” Charles grinned like the cat that got the cream. “It’s fine, of course. I’d be… honored to have someone of your skill fire it. I’m a passable shot, but it deserves a more talented touch.” He laughed. “I must say, I’d also quite like to be in your head when you fire it. To feel what you feel.”

“That’s a strange proposition,” Erik said, eye wandering back to the pistol.

“Try it, you might like it,” Charles replied. He stepped back from the counter, putting his hearing protection back on, and Erik put his own on and stepped forward. He picked up the CZ, getting the feel of it, and set it down again to load the magazine, feeling Charles’ eyes on him. “May I?” Charles asked.

“Yes,” Erik replied, and then Charles was in his head, observing how Erik took note of the composition of the cartridges, the way he could adjust them slightly in the magazine for optimum firing and a reduced risk of jamming, the sense of rightness he had when the magazine clicked into place, his appreciation of how cleanly the slide racked and chambered a round. “You could be using better quality ammunition, but this will do,” he told Charles.

 _Mmm_ , Charles acknowledged. Erik glanced at him over his shoulder, but Charles just smiled at him.

“Really. CZs are fine guns and unlikely to jam, but if you start out with better quality ammo you’re only helping yourself.” Erik turned back to face the target. The stainless steel practically sang to him, the direct skin contact pleasing him, his pleasure evidently pleasing Charles as well. He aimed, and fired. The CZ operated like a dream for that and the remaining rounds. 

Erik ejected the magazine, opened and checked the action, and set the pistol down. Turning to Charles, who looked a little flushed, he took off his hearing protection, as did Charles, who seemed to take this as a cue to withdraw from Erik’s mind.

“Very nice,” Charles said. “I think I’m a little weak in the knees, actually.”

“Do you often pick up at firing ranges?” Erik wondered, stepping closer.

“No, this the first time, but honestly I wish I’d started sooner,” Charles breathed. He slid a hand up Erik’s chest to cup the back of his neck, and drew him down for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> "Write the gun kink you wish to see in the world," I told myself, and from that came this impromptu fic.


End file.
